The stadium was still trembling.
Spanish fans roared. The red tide in the stands surged with energy, a wild, euphoric chaos that rippled across the arena.
Izan's teammates swarmed him—Pedri, Lamine, Nico, Carvajal—arms around him, voices lost in the deafening noise.
But even in the celebration, in the firestorm of emotions, Izan's eyes flicked toward the other side of the pitch.
France.
Deschamps stood motionless. Arms crossed. Expression, unreadable. But something flickered in his eyes—a calculation, an adjustment already forming.
His players, though, were reeling.
Maignan pushed himself off the turf, his face clouded with disbelief. The knuckle shot had left him grasping at thin air.
Tchouaméni clenched his fists, muttering under his breath while Upamecano kicked the turf in frustration.
Koundé, his earlier clearance now meaningless, exhaled sharply before jogging back into position.
Then there was Mbappé.
